It’s there; that sensation, the one that tells my fingers they are home. I don’t open my eyes at first, instead just letting my mind take me back to my room in the city, the practice room that used to feel like home. The sound from my hands—it feels like that home, like my old life, and the longer I play, the more of the Concerto I complete, the more my mouth tastes funny. I’m hitting the right notes, everything coming out just as it should. But what’s missing is the passion.

My stop is abrupt, my fingers recoiling into my fists, my eyes flashing open—thoughts of Owen, of Willow, of my life now, the good and the bad, surrounding me.

“Miss Worth?” There’s a throat-clearing sound. They aren’t happy. I’m pretty sure this is how someone blows an audition. But I can’t continue to play something that I just don’t feel.

“I…I’m sorry. I’ve changed my mind,” I say, my eyes searching for Owen. He’s leaning forward in a far seat, his elbows propped on his legs, his head tilted to the side. He’s afraid—worried that I’m quitting, giving up. But I’m not. I’m just doing this on my terms.

“If it’s all right, I’d like to begin again?” I ask, my fingers finding one another, fretting…maybe hoping a little too that they will get the chance to show everyone exactly what they can do.

“You may,” the speaker says, his tone growing more tired with me.

Deep breath.

“Thank you,” I say, retaking my seat and looking at the expanse of keys before me, the pattern, the way the black and white lines dance. I’m going to make them dance. I rest my hands loosely, nothing like this room full of professors would wish me to, but…I. Don’t. Care. “This is C Jam Blues, written by the great Duke Ellington. I’m going to be playing it as inspired by Oscar Peterson. I hope you enjoy.”

When I turn to face the keys again, I smirk, my stomach settling, and my heart soaring. I don’t even remember hearing the sounds my hands make. This moment, the five minutes I play and pound, smiling the entire time—it’s like recess. I’m on one big life recess, and I never want to come back.

I never bother to look, just playing on, dragging out a few of the jazz riffs, some of the repetitions, a few more times than necessary. I do it because I can tell everyone is hanging on every single note I’m playing. They won’t admit it—but I have them. I have them because this…this is what my hands were meant to do. What I’m meant to do.

When I’m done, I feel euphoric, and I stand, the bench screeching along the floor as I move it out of my way. “Thank you,” I say, stepping to the side exit, down the steps to the end of the hallway where Owen is now waiting for me.

I’m worried he’s going to be mad, maybe disappointed, but he rushes to me, sweeping me into his arms and twirling me around the tiny hallway, his kiss proof that what I did in there—Owen liked it too.

“That was fucking fantastic. I mean, holy shit, Kens! Did you see those guys? They had no idea what to do with you. I mean, I don’t know how they work these things, or how they score that shit, but damn, girl!” His celebration is enough, and I tuck myself along his side, the plastic bag with my jeans and band clothes dangling from Owen’s other hand.

We climb the small steps up the narrow hallway, my hand on the door I’ve pushed through so many times. Chen bursts through the opposite side of the hallway, his eyes finding mine right away, his face proud and beaming.

“Ohhhhhh Kensington,” he’s nearly weeping, and I can see the surprise in Owen’s face as this man, probably in his sixties, brushes Owen aside, hugging me as if I’m his own daughter. “So proud. You make me…so proud,” he says, his hands on my cheeks, pushing in tightly. I can see in his eyes that he’s genuinely happy for me, and I can also see that I blew any chance I might have of joining their program.

And Chen and I couldn’t care less.

I introduce him to Owen quickly, and their handshake is fast and awkward before Chen rushes back inside. I breathe easy for the two hours it takes to drive through the city, to Owen’s driveway. Owen asks me questions about Chen along the way, about my lessons with him, about my underground lessons—the times we knew my father wasn’t around, wouldn’t hear. I talk about how Chen made me love jazz, my chest alive and full and anxious for more.

I want to run through the streets of our neighborhood when I skip from Owen’s truck, making noises in celebration just to hear them echo off of the dark houses around us. The moon is out, and still the stars are bright—a pairing that shouldn’t happen. And I want to dance, for hours, out here in the freezing cold in Owen’s arms. The way he’s looking at me, the wonder in his face, it spurs me on, drawing me to him.